


The Dying Doctor

by TranscendentalStarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TranscendentalStarlight/pseuds/TranscendentalStarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based off ACD's "The Dying Detective." Sherlock relives a case that should have killed him, but instead results in John being hospitalized for a deadly disease. Sherlock endeavors to catch the murderer, while attempting to envision a future without John Watson. No Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Symptoms and Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fanfiction and is based off one of my favorite Sherlock Holmes stories. I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes in any way, shape, or fashion.

John Watson was dying. 

Sherlock Holmes sat in an uncomfortable chair staring at his friend’s still form. John, not a tall man by any means, looked even smaller lying in the hospital bed, hooked to a ventilator that controlled the rise and fall of his chest, insuring that the heart rate monitor kept up its steady beat. Before the end, the nurses told him, they would most likely need to put John on extracorporeal membrane oxygenation, where a machine would oxygenate his blood, a job his heart and lungs would normally perform if the Hantavirus coursing through John’s body hadn’t started destroying those organs.

Sherlock felt the panic start to well up in him again; it was such an unnatural occurrence for him that the rational part of his brain managed a twinge of surprise every time he experienced the gut-freezing sensation. The end of John Watson. The thought sickened Sherlock. Especially because he had played a part in bringing about the demise of the one person who had been able to put up with his aggravating genius and then go one step further by befriending him. And now John would never again race through the streets of London with Sherlock or roll his eyes at Sherlock’s inability to go grocery shopping or help stave off Sherlock’s boredom by arguing with him. 

This nightmare had all started 6 days, 1 hour, and 43 minutes ago…

John came back one day from healing London’s sick and weary complaining of aches throughout his body, but especially in his shoulders and back. Sherlock just assumed John’s war wound was acting up again. The London weather had been unusually damp as of late. But he started worrying a bit when John made to get up from the couch but quickly sat down again after seemingly experiencing a spell of dizziness. He waved off Sherlock’s concerned look. 

“It’s probably just the bug that’s been going around. We’ve seen a lot of patients with flu-like symptoms lately,” John said. “I think I’ll just stay on the couch for now.” Sherlock just shrugged and turned back to the electron microscope images Molly had sent him that afternoon. 

Something about the death of Victor Savage seemed wrong to him. That an accountant could contact a deadly disease usually transferred by lab rats and die a week later seemed a little too convenient. He had gotten Molly to send him the images and was looking for anything out of the ordinary. John fell asleep on the couch without even attempting to figure out what Sherlock was working on, which sent another twinge of concern through Sherlock’s mind. 

Sherlock pulled a blanket over his friend before heading up to his room to muse awhile in his mind palace. Savage’s blood contained only the one pathogen as the report had stated, but it looked different from the textbook Hantavirus depicted in the stock image from the lab. How had it gotten into his bloodstream in the first place? They were releasing the body to Molly tomorrow. He would have to go sweet-talk her into giving him a look at the corpse.

The next day Sherlock woke early to find John still passed out on the couch. He left John a short note, “Going out,” and then headed to the morgue at St. Barts. Molly was waiting for him at the door, clothed in a protective suit, and holding a matching one up for Sherlock. “I figured you would want to have a look,” she said in the slightly stammering tone of voice she always used around Sherlock. Sherlock gave her a small, but genuine smile as he reluctantly took the suit from her.   
“Excellent, Molly. That was quite thoughtful,” Sherlock said only half-faking the appreciative tone. Molly shot him an incredulous look.

 

“Right then,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll leave you to it.” She started to leave the room then turned around. “Where’s John?” 

“He’s feeling a bit under the weather,” Sherlock replied, already losing interest in the conversation now that he had a body to focus on. 

“I hope he feels better,” Molly offered. 

“I’ll relay your sentiments,” he said quietly, though in reality he had barely registered her comment. Sherlock heard the door shut as Molly left the room and he sighed with relief. Now he could work his magic.

Victor Savage. 32 years old. High level of physical fitness judging from his toned muscles and the calluses on the sides of his big toes. Most likely an avid runner with shoes that were slightly too narrow in the toe. Dark tan, but no signs of the tan line left by a ring, thus unmarried. Ear pierced many years ago, but he had let the hole close up. Teeth stained red. That would suggest bleeding from the gums or throwing up blood. Slight blackening at the fingertips most likely caused by gangrene. A pinprick on his waist: site of injection. 

He looked at the hospital chart Molly had left behind. Savage was not diabetic nor did he have any other preexisting health conditions that would explain the needle mark. So what could have caused it? Savage had not know he was dying, so the murderer probably hadn’t drugged him directly. An indirect injection then. Maybe a needle concealed in a device of some sort. The injection had been shallow, but had left a large mark. They were looking for a short, but thick needle.

Sherlock stepped away from the body and frowned. Something here wasn’t quite right. Hantavirus did not usually cause bleeding gums or lead to gangrenous fingers. He sent Molly a quick text, “Come to the morgue. Need your opinion.”

Molly walked in a few minutes later and stood next to Sherlock. “What do you make of this?” he asked, showing her the fingertips and red-stained teeth.

Molly leaned in a bit closer to examine Savage’s body. “Don’t know. Those symptoms aren’t typical of Hantavirus, though. But there was only one pathogen in his blood,” she said, puzzled.

Sherlock didn’t answer. Something about this case seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not seem to turn the nagging suspicion into anything concrete. “See if you can get another analysis of the pathogen,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, okay,” Molly stammered. “I’ll get right on that.” Sherlock started for the door, but stopped as he opened it. “Thank you,” he said stiffly, and then walked out. Molly stared at the now-closed door in amazement. John Watson was having a profound effect on Sherlock Holmes; anyone who said otherwise was a fool. 

Sherlock walked briskly into Lestrade’s office. Lestrade, as usual, looked less than pleased to see him. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely. “And where’s John?”

“Why is everyone so concerned by John’s absence? He’s caught some sort of bug from work,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“We’re concerned because it’s a rare sight to see one of you without the other, but especially to see you without him. Tell him I’m sorry he’s sick by the way,” Lestrade said standing up from his desk and stretching.

“I’m sure your condolences will noticeably lessen his suffering,” Sherlock said dryly. He did not understand the point of all these useless social niceties. Why would John care if people were sorry he was sick? It wouldn’t make him feel any better. 

Lestrade ignored this and reworded his earlier question, “Sherlock, why are you here?” 

“I need to look at Victor Savage’s belongings,” Sherlock answered.

“The man died of a disease. It’s not a homicide,” Lestrade sighed exasperatedly, praying that Savage had met his end by natural means. He did not need another case right now.

“I’m not saying he didn’t, but his death was anything but natural,” Sherlock responded as if reading Lestrade’s mind. “What were his final words again? Did he or did he not gasp to the paramedics with his dying breath, ‘He’s done me in?’ ” Sherlock asked icily. “There is a high probability he was murdered, but his murderer was crafty enough to make it look natural.” Lestrade treated him much more cordially when John was around. Sherlock filed that away in his mind for future contemplation. 

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but we figured he was just delusional. The man was working with an oxygen-starved brain,” Lestrade reasoned. 

“And yet Hantavirus does not cause hallucinations or madness,” Sherlock replied. “The data suggests Savage was murdered. I found a needle mark on his waist. He wasn’t a diabetic and had no preexisting conditions or recent health problems that would explain such a mark.” Lestrade sighed. 

“Right then. Let me go find his things. But I can’t take you to his place until tomorrow. The team has to disinfect it first. They don’t mess around when it comes to disease. And no, that does not mean you can go by yourself.” Sherlock smirked despite himself. Lestrade knew him far too well. The Detective Inspector came back a few minutes later with Savage’s personal effects. 

“These had to be disinfected as well, so we can’t get any prints from them. All he had on him was his wallet and cell phone. The paramedics found him on the floor of his flat after he called. He died en route to the hospital,” Lestrade stated. “One of his mates who ran with him said he had called off their morning run for the past week because he wasn’t feeling well.”

Sherlock opened Savage’s wallet. A gym membership, a few credit cards, and an identification card, along with a few crumpled bills and some loose change made up the entire contents of the wallet. No hidden needles, but he hadn’t really expected there to be. The mark had been too high up on his body to be from something in his pocket. 

Sherlock handled Savage’s cell phone with more caution, but again he found no needle or any sort of hidden compartment that could have contained one. This phone was old. A model from a few years ago; the scratches covering its surface showed it had been well used. Whatever had contained the needle that introduced the virus into Savage’s bloodstream would have to be new. Hopefully, the flat would have more answers. 

Sherlock seriously debated heading over to the address without Lestrade (he had looked it up on the computer while Lestrade was busy locating Savage’s possessions), but he didn’t want to start a feud with the Detective Inspector. With John temporarily out of commission, he needed to stay on Lestrade’s good side. Maybe Lestrade would give him the address for the firm where Savage worked. A quick text message later, and Sherlock had what he needed. Sherlock flagged down a taxi and gave the cabbie his destination.

 

Sherlock walked through the door of 221B several hours later, carrying a bag full of deli sandwiches and soup. “John,” he called. “I’ve brought dinner.” Secretly, Sherlock was quite pleased with himself. He relished the surprised and grateful look on John’s face whenever Sherlock did something nice for him, even though he would never have admitted it to the doctor.

“What’s the occasion?” John asked sarcastically from behind Sherlock. The detective turned with a retort on his lips, but it died in his throat as he caught sight of his friend. John looked terrible. He had a comforter wrapped around his shoulders, but Sherlock could see the shivers that wracked his body. His skin had turned a sickly shade of grey and dark circles marked the skin under his eyes. John had managed to catch a nasty case of the flu.

“You look ghastly,” Sherlock observed.

“Well, we can’t all have cheekbones like yours,” John said with a small smirk. Sherlock gave him one in return. At least John still had his sense of humor. Sherlock frowned at the flicker of pain that shot across John’s face as he lowered himself into a chair. 

“You should see a doctor,” Sherlock observed.

“I am a doctor,” John snapped back.  
“Undeniable proof that doctors make the worst patients,” Sherlock muttered. John smiled a bit at that. 

“If it doesn’t clear up by the end of the week, I’ll go,” John conceded. Sherlock nodded in satisfaction.

“Molly and Lestrade send you their condolences,” he offered.

“That was nice of them,” John replied. “So, how is the Savage case coming along?” 

Sherlock filled John in on the day’s findings. He then went on to recount what he had learned from Savage’s secretary. “It seems the Savage family has been plagued with misfortune death. His uncle was diagnosed with terminal cancer a year ago, and he took a turn for the worse right before Savage’s murder. Savage’s parents died when he was young and this uncle, Fitzwilliam Smith, adopted him, as he had no children of his own. He’s been out of work for a week, claiming a bout of the flu.” 

“Only to die a few days later. Poor man,” John said shivering again. “Right, well you’re on the trail now, so he’ll be avenged. Back to the couch for me. Thanks for the soup.”

“I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge,” Sherlock responded, but his keen eyes had not failed to notice that John had barely eaten a dozen spoonfuls. 

“Just keep them well away from those pickled toes you have on the middle shelf,” John warned. “I don’t want to find one of those in my bowl tomorrow.”

 

The next day John had not improved, but he hadn’t worsened either. As Sherlock was heading out the door to go with Lestrade to the flat, John commented, “You know, this case seems familiar somehow.” Sherlock turned back to his friend. 

“I thought the same thing,” he replied. “But why?”

“Don’t know,” John answered. “But I’ll try to figure it out while you’re off solving crimes without me.” Sherlock gave John a small smile and then left his friend to recover and watch crap telly.

 

Savage had lived in a small, but neat flat. Tidiness must come as part of an accountant’s nature, Sherlock thought wryly. 

“So, what are we looking for then?” Lestrade asked as he stepped into the kitchen followed by a team decked out in biohazard suits. Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to wear one as well. Apparently, one couldn’t be too careful when it came to Hantavirus.

“Anything that could contain a needle,” Sherlock said, his voice slightly muffled by the suit. “A needle 2 cm in length and 0.6 mm in diameter, so thicker and shorter than a standard hypodermic needle.” Lestrade and the rest of the team began to spread out across the flat.

“Call me over if you find something that could hold a needle of that size,” Sherlock shouted. “Do not touch or pick it up, as the mechanism could still be engaged.” 

Sherlock left the bedroom to the rest of the team. A pile of letters lying neatly in a letter holder on the kitchen table caught his attention. A return address for a law office decorated the corner of each envelope. He pulled out the most recent letter entitled, “The Last Will and Testament of Fitzwilliam Smith.” Sherlock quickly read through the will. His mouth turned up into a slight grin. 

Smith had left everything he owned to his nephew, Victor. This added up to a far from trifling sum. Sherlock turned as Lestrade shouted his name from Savage’s bedroom. Sherlock walked up to Lestrade and the team who were gathered around Savage’s bedside table. He handed the will to Lestrade. 

“Now our killer has a motive,” Sherlock stated as he knelt down to look at the high-tech pedometer sitting next to the alarm clock. “This is the murder weapon. As soon as Savage attached it to his trousers, he activated the spring mechanism hooked to the clip. The question is, why didn’t he get suspicious when his pedometer stabbed him?”

“We also found this in a box in his trash,” Lestrade said handing Sherlock an instruction manual. “It supposedly monitored vital signs by occasionally taking a blood sample.”

“Ingenious,” Sherlock murmured. “Though a smarter man than Savage would have seen through that in an instant.”

“The box was from his uncle, Fitzwilliam Smith,” Lestrade added. 

“That can’t be right. Why would the uncle want to kill the nephew he named heir in his will? We need to talk to Smith,” Sherlock said.

“The man’s dying, Sherlock,” Lestrade let out exasperatedly. “We can’t just phone him up.”

“Was there a letter from his uncle in the box?” Sherlock asked. 

“There was actually. Only a short note,” Lestrade replied, confused at the sudden change of subject. He handed the slip of paper to Sherlock who quickly skimmed it.

“Just as I thought. Our killer has slipped up. Compare this signature to the one in the will. They look nothing alike. The W in the will is sharp, while in the note it’s rounded. The dots on the Is in the will are circular, while those in the note are more like dashes, and the difference between the capital Fs is so pronounced even a child would notice it. And don’t even bother to suggest his handwriting has changed as a result of his worsening illness as the package and will are both dated after his condition worsened,” Sherlock rattled off triumphantly. 

Lestrade quickly closed his mouth, as he had been about to suggest the differences might have been the result of illness. 

A phone vibration interrupted the silence following Sherlock’s announcement. “It’s from John,” Sherlock said, frowning slightly. He didn’t understand why a text from a sick John would make his gut twist with a split second of worry; sentiment was so irrational. 

Margaret Beecher died of Hantavirus. Started looking into her case 6 months ago. Put it on hold when we got involved in the Affair of the Opera House.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the dramatic title John had given to their most recent high-profile case. A serial killer had been murdering actors playing Joseph Buquet in showings of The Phantom of the Opera all over the country. He responded simply to John’s text, Well done –SH, and then turned to Lestrade. 

“We need to find out if Victor Savage had any connection to Margaret Beecher. She also died of Hantavirus, which aroused my suspicions six months ago. John and I started looking into it, but then we had to tackle the ‘Affair of the Opera House,’ as John has decided to name the case concerning the Joseph Buquet serial killer.”

“That was a good one,” piped up one of Lestrade’s team. “Dr. Watson really has a way with the words for a medical man.” Sherlock ignored him, his mind already running over all the data he had collected for the Margaret Beecher case. Margaret had been 35 and married with two children. She was an avid tennis player. It had taken her only 3 days to succumb to the disease, most likely due to complications from asthma. She had worked as an environmental consultant for a firm in London and did not have any known contact with lab rats. 

“I need to talk to Margaret Beecher’s husband,” Sherlock stated to the room at large. “We need to find whatever device introduced Hantavirus into her system.”

Lestrade nodded while listening to whoever was on the other end of his phone. “Right,” he said as he finished the call. “Turns out Beecher and Savage were cousins. I’ve got the address for Beecher’s husband.”

Sherlock followed Lestrade to the door and then turned to give the rest of Lestrade’s team one last order, “Get that needle analyzed for traces of Hantavirus and dust it for any fingerprints not belonging to the victim.”

“Do as he says,” Lestrade ordered without even turning around or slowing his pace. God help him if he was going to let Sherlock Holmes have the final word with his team.

The Beechers lived in a small house outside of London. A girl, aged about 7 years, answered the door. “Is your father home?” Lestrade asked in the tone adults reserved for children. “We need to ask him some questions.” The girl nodded, gestured for them to come into the house, and went off in search of her father. Seconds later, a black-haired man—whose body posture and doleful expression showed that his wife’s death still haunted him—came to the door, a puzzled expression on his face. 

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” he asked defensively.

“No need to be alarmed,” Lestrade said, flashing his badge at Mr. Beecher. “I’m Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I hate to make you revisit such a painful topic, Mr. Beecher, but we need to talk to you about your wife’s death.”

“Murder, actually,” Sherlock corrected. Mr. Beecher stared at them in horror.

“My wife died of a terrible disease. She wasn’t murdered. Who is he anyway?” Mr. Beecher asked angrily, gesturing at the consulting detective.

“Sherlock Holmes. And yes, your wife was murdered,” Sherlock replied.

“I’ve seen your name in the papers. You’re the one looking into Victor’s death. He and Margaret were so fond of each other,” Mr. Beecher replied, most of the anger leaving his eyes as he mentioned his dead wife.

“Mr. Beecher,” Lestrade said with compassion in his voice, trying to make up for Sherlock’s lackluster social abilities. “We have good reason to believe the man who killed Victor Savage also murdered your wife. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill Margaret?”

Mr. Beecher rubbed his eyes and sat down in a chair in the living room, gesturing for Sherlock and Lestrade to make themselves comfortable. “No. Margaret didn’t have any enemies or even any petty rivalries. She was one of those people who could get along with anyone,” he said.

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen before she died?” Lestrade questioned. “Did she receive any strange news or packages?” Mr. Beecher sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. 

“There were two things actually. Victor had just named Margaret the executor of his estate in the case of his death. We thought he was a bit young to be writing a will, but he was always a man who liked to be prepared. As of this will, Margaret would also inherit all his money and possessions if he passed away.”

“Meaning she would have also inherited her uncle’s estate from Victor in the case of her uncle’s death,” Sherlock mused aloud. “What was the second thing?”

“She received a package from her uncle about a week before she died,” Mr. Beecher said.

“Let me guess,” Sherlock said, standing up to pace in front of the couch. “It contained a high-end pedometer that monitored vital signs by taking blood samples?” Mr. Beecher gaped up at the detective.

“Yes, but how could you know that?” he asked in amazement.

“Because Victor Savage was murdered using the same method. The pedometer’s clip activated a spring mechanism connected to a needle coated in Hantavirus,” Sherlock explained.

“But why would her uncle want to kill her? They weren’t as close as he and Victor, but they got along extremely well,” Mr. Beecher explained.

“Because her uncle didn’t send it,” Sherlock said exasperatedly. John would be shooting him a look if he were here, reminding Sherlock to play nice. “His signature was a forgery. Has anyone touched the pedometer since?”

“No,” Mr. Beecher replied. “I still haven’t been able to bring myself to clean up her stuff. I know it’s been six months, but I still can’t wrap my head around the fact she’s never coming back.” His eyes began to get a bit misty. Sherlock hated this part; he was no good at offering words of comfort. John always handled any consoling that popped up on a case. Luckily, Lestrade stepped in at that moment. 

“I’d like to say it gets easier, but that would be lying. The pain just shows how important your wife was to you, so cut yourself a bit of slack,” the Detective Inspector said, shooting the man across from him a look of sympathy.

“Do you mind if we inspect her belongings?” Sherlock asked. Lestrade groaned inwardly. The consulting detective had the emotional timing of a rock. Mr. Beecher took a deep breath, composing himself. 

“Of course not. Our bedroom is just upstairs,” Mr. Beecher said, leading the way out of the sitting area. 

The bedroom did not seem to know one of its occupants had died, as a variety of female possessions were littered throughout the room. Perfume and make-up dominated one side of the bureau. A paperback historical romance novel sat on the left bedside table, a mint green bookmark sticking out about three-quarters of the way through. Jewelry glittered from various resting places around the room. But the pedometer was nowhere in sight. 

“Do you know what she did with the pedometer?” Lestrade asked.

“Unfortunately, no. I haven’t seen it since…since she died,” Beecher replied, tapering off at the end of the sentence. Sherlock sighed. Really, this man was no help at all. 

“Did your wife say anything strange before she died?” Sherlock asked.

“Now that you mention it, she did actually. I was at the zoo with the kids for the day and I came home to find her…dying. She could barely breathe, but she kept trying to gasp something out. Her last words to me were, ‘He…killed…me,’ and then she was gone. The most amazing woman I will ever know. If you’ll excuse me a moment,” Beecher said, leaving the room.

So, Margaret Beecher had also known the identity of her killer. If the pedometer was not in plain sight, then perhaps she had been clever enough to hide it to keep it from falling into the hands of her children. But where? Where would a dying woman have put it? Someplace her husband and children would never look. Of course, how painfully obvious. 

“Mr. Beecher,” Sherlock called, striding from the room. “That door leads to your wife’s office, I presume?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with her case? She died in the bedroom,” he answered.

“But she hid the murder weapon somewhere you wouldn’t find it. Perhaps, in a safe in her study,” Sherlock said, walking into the office only to have his words vindicated. Sherlock crossed the room to the safe in two quick strides, opening the safe as if he had come up with the combination.

“How did you know the code?” Beecher asked, startled. “She didn’t even tell it to me.”

“Your wedding day. Your wife loved you very much, Mr. Beecher, or else a bright woman like her would have chosen a much more intricate combination. Bag, Lestrade,” Sherlock said brusquely. 

“Hold on, Sherlock. I’ve got to call in the team. Some things have to be done by the book,” Lestrade said, pulling out his phone. Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose. Such tedious rules, but Lestrade’s tone suggested he would not back down, and John wouldn’t have wanted him risking his life just to prove his cleverness. 

The detective wandered back into the Beecher’s room. Lestrade and Beecher had not noticed the word, “study,” highlighted in a clinical research report Margaret had placed on the table next to her unfinished novel. Sherlock would have looked in her office first anyway, but he appreciated the woman’s intelligence. A woman that smart would have left some kind of clue about her murderer (hoping someone more observant than her husband would notice), assuming she had had time before she died. 

Sherlock’s eyes roved about the room, but kept being drawn to the jewelry strewn across the dresser. From a distance, the pieces looked as if they had been tossed about randomly, but when Sherlock stood above them and looked down, he could clearly make out the letters UCS. Sherlock smiled. The murderer had made a mistake when he decided to mess with Margaret Beecher. “Lestrade,” Sherlock called, and the Detective Inspector came running into the room, followed by Beecher. “Look at this.”

Lestrade swore under his breath and turned on Beecher. “Did you ever notice this before?”

“Notice what?” Beecher asked, squinting at the jewelry. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Your wife left two clues behind before she died. First, she highlighted the word study on this scientific article from work, leading me to conclude she had hidden the murder weapon in her study. Second, she arranged her jewelry into the letters UCS, most likely giving us the initials of her murderer. It’s a good thing you didn’t touch anything or we would have had nothing to go on,” Sherlock stated with a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

Beecher just stared at Sherlock who had started to pace the room, eyes closed. Lestrade grabbed the man’s arm and led him into the hallway. He knew by now how to tell when Sherlock would find other people thinking in the room an annoyance.

Three letters. UCS: University College School. University Campus Suffolk. Universal Character Set. None of those made sense. Think! It had to be a name; the woman had been dying, and that would be the most obvious clue to leave. Urban Charles Savage. Ulysses Christopher Smith. Too many possibilities. He needed more to go on than this. Sherlock heard the team arriving downstairs and then Lestrade burst into the room.

“Fitzwilliam Smith died this morning,” he announced.

“Who will inherit the estate?” Sherlock asked.

“The weird thing is, they don’t know yet,” Lestrade explained. “Victor’s dead, and so is Margaret, so the money should go to the next blood-related male in the family. Strange thing is, all of Smith’s brothers are dead.”

“Not all of them,” Beecher spoke up from the doorway. “That was the story they told, but I remember Margaret told me a story about one of her uncles. He fought with the rest of his brothers and got himself all-but-legally removed from the family. Margaret had a picture of her dad and the rest of his brothers as kids somewhere.” 

Beecher rifled through one of the drawers of the bureau, finally pulling out a sepia-colored photograph of four boys linking arms. He turned the photograph over and pointed out Margaret and Victor’s fathers’ names. And there, next to the name Fitzwilliam Smith was the name Frederick Culverton-Smith.

Sherlock let out a sigh of realization and frustration that he had not seen it sooner. “Of course,” he breathed. “U stands for uncle. UCS is Uncle Culverton-Smith. It all makes so much sense. Culverton-Smith was kicked out of the family, but since it wasn’t a legal disownment, he could still inherit the estate. When he found out brother dearest was on death’s door, he eliminated the two threats between him and a wealthy future.”

“That’s all well and good,” Lestrade countered. “But we don’t have any proof.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock replied, the fire of the chase burning in his yes. “Thank you, Mr. Beecher for providing us with such a vital piece of information. Come, Lestrade. We need to discover the truth about the fourth Smith brother.”

Hours later, the clock in Lestrade’s office read 7:00 p.m. They now had the full biography of Culverton-Smith. He was a medical researcher specializing in diseases transmitted by rats. He had been fired from the company 10 years ago when they discovered that he had secretly been studying Hantavirus by purposefully injecting rats with the virus. His brothers, ashamed and alarmed at this development, had quarreled with Culverton-Smith and cast him out of the family. Smith had left the country, and his current whereabouts were unknown. The last anyone had seen of him, he had been living in Thailand, but that had been 4 years ago. He had no address in London, nor any Internet or credit record, and there had been no activity on his bank account, as the bank reported that he had taken his life savings with him when he left England.

Culverton-Smith had all the makings of a man who would murder his nephew and niece, as well as access to, and knowledge of, the disease that had killed them. Unfortunately, they currently had no way of locating him, nor any definite proof linking him to the murders. Forensics had only found the victims’ prints on the pedometers, and despite Anderson’s colossal idiocy, even he couldn’t botch a simple fingerprint analysis. The only positive in all this was that the needles hidden in the pedometer had been coated with Hantavirus. Other than that, they had reached a dead end.

Sherlock growled in annoyance. “There has to be some way to fish him out! Some way to get him out of hiding and wring a confession out of him.” 

“There is,” Lestrade said slowly. Sherlock turned to look at him, confusion written on his face.

“How?”

“Fitzwilliam Smith was a bit old-fashioned. He had a line in his will that the heir would have to receive the money in person within a week of his death or all the money would go to charity, and the house would become a nursing home. So, Culverton-Smith has to come crawling out of his hole like that rat that he is in order to see a single pound of the inheritance,” Lestrade said beaming. 

Sherlock blinked slowly. For once, the Detective Inspector had stunned him into silence. Sherlock was saved from complimenting Lestrade by his phone vibrating. He briefly registered John’s number on the screen, only to be met by Mrs. Hudson’s frantic voice. 

“Sherlock,” his landlady said, fear in every syllable. “You need to come home now. John’s not well. He can barely breathe, and he keeps gasping out something about a magnifying glass. I called an ambulance. Oh, please hurry, Sherlock, ” 

Sherlock barely registered the phone slipping out of his hands or Mrs. Hudson’s sob-filled voice asking if he was still there. He felt a strange numbness taking hold of his body. The never-ceasing gears of his mind had suddenly stopped working, and he was overly aware of his own breathing. 

John and his infernal crusade to bring tidiness to their flat. The magnifying glass he had gotten in the mail a week ago. The one he hadn’t touched because he had seen the spring mechanism hidden in the handle. A mechanism that had probably triggered a needle coated in death, just like the pedometers. And John had picked it up because Sherlock couldn’t afford the 2 seconds it would have taken to dispose of it properly or even the 20 seconds it would have taken to warn John not to touch it. 

John would die. This wasn’t something Sherlock could solve; cleverness didn’t matter when it came to disease. The loyal doctor had unwittingly taken the “bullet” meant for Sherlock. John would die, and Sherlock would be alone, but it would be worse now, now that he knew what it meant to have a friend. He let out a strangled sob, but his eyes mercifully remained dry. 

Sherlock looked up from the ground as Lestrade put his hand on the detective’s shoulder. He handed the phone back to Sherlock who numbly put the device in his pocket.

“The paramedics have arrived, and they’ve taken him to Barts. They think he was just having a fit, so he’s not in any immediate danger,” Lestrade said, visibly shaken. When Sherlock didn’t respond, Lestrade put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and gently shook him. “Sherlock. He’s not dead yet.” 

“No,” Sherlock said softly. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t die.


	2. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken some creative liberties with the science here, so please suspend your disbelief, though the part about the plague originating in China is factual. This one is a lot less action packed, but this is the real part of the story I wanted to explore: Sherlock’s views on his friendship with John.

And so, Sherlock found himself sitting in John’s room at St. Bart’s for the third day in a row. Despite the fact John had been admitted to the hospital fairly early on in the progress of the disease, he was not responding well to treatment. The doctors were baffled when John’s gums started bleeding, but this only proved what Sherlock had long suspected: Culverton-Smith had made an attempt on his life, but ended up putting the doctor on the deathbed meant for the detective. 

Sherlock did not fear death. He saw it nearly every day in the walk of life he had chosen for himself. If he had been the one lying in the hospital bed, he would only regret that he could not live longer to use his massive intellect to clean up the streets of London, plagued by the knowledge that men who should have been imprisoned would continue to walk free. Now that he thought about it, though, he might have a second regret: leaving behind the select few people he actually cared about. And this was why Sherlock felt the cold grip of fear every time he looked at John because John had made him care about people, and he wasn’t ready to have the doctor leave him behind.

John had been conscious for several hours during the first night in the hospital. He confirmed that he had picked up the magnifying glass, which had stabbed him, but he had just figured it was some sort of strange weapon of Sherlock’s. John did not panic when Sherlock told him what the needle had infected him with.

“The possibility crossed my mind when I had that respiratory attack. It was similar to the way the victims died, and I was exhibiting many of the symptoms,” John had said calmly. “I am a doctor after all, Sherlock.”

“And a damn good one at that,” Sherlock had complimented. John shot him a look of surprise and then a huge grin had spread across his face. Sherlock’s mouth had responded in turn.

“Right then. So that’s what it takes to get a compliment from you: a life-threatening illness. I’ll have to put that in the blog,” John had replied. And despite the fact that John might not live to make another blog post, and that the situation was not in the least bit funny, both men began to laugh. John’s laugh quickly turned into a cough, and then he had begun gasping for breath. Sherlock pressed the emergency button and a team of nurses rushed into the room. One of the nurses had escorted Sherlock outside and told him he could come back once they had gotten John settled. 

Sherlock paced in the hospital hallway, feeling even guiltier than before. John wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for him, and now he had almost caused him to die of asphyxiation. 30 minutes later, a nurse came out to tell him John had stabilized, but they had put him on a ventilator to help ease his breathing. 

“He’s very lucky to have a friend like you,” the nurse had said as she led Sherlock back into the room. Sherlock thought this couldn’t have been further from the truth. When Sherlock sat down again, pulling his chair closer to the bed, John had reached out and patted Sherlock’s hand, the look in his eyes telling him the laugh had been worth it. 

Since then, John had remained in the realm of unconsciousness. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Harry, and even Anderson and Donovan showed up, brining flowers and condolences. Molly brought a cactus. When Sherlock had shot her a quizzical look, Molly had stated defensively, “I didn’t think flowers suited him. This is more fitting for John.” Sherlock couldn’t have agreed more. To his surprise, Sherlock found that he didn’t even have the energy to fire snide comments at Anderson and Donovan, who looked genuinely saddened at John’s condition. 

Harry had asked for some time alone with her brother, which Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to give her only when Lestrade forcefully led him to the cafeteria, telling Sherlock that John would have been furious if he had known the detective had not eaten in days. Mrs. Hudson had brought him a change of clothes as well as some books and his violin. Mycroft had used his influence and wealth to pay for a private room for John, so Sherlock would not disturb other patients with his playing. 

But he hadn’t touched the violin or the books. He spent most of the time reminiscing about the past and trying to commit every detail of John Watson to memory, from his physical appearance to his quirks. And today, he had finally started to mull over their friendship. The first (and now likely the last) Sherlock had ever been a part of. Countless times during their stint as flat mates Sherlock had wished for solitude, but now that he was faced with the prospect of an empty house, Sherlock found himself hoping for the exact opposite: many more years of companionship with the doctor. 

What was it about John’s character that made the idea of losing him terrify Sherlock so much? He was intelligent, not at Sherlock’s level of course, but much higher than the rest of London. His courage and adrenaline craving made him a suitable partner in crime. He helped Sherlock navigate the murky waters of the social world and had taught him that people had feelings and that his words often hurt those feelings. But none of that explained the whole story.

Sherlock didn’t even know why he considered it necessary to analyze his friendship with John. Maybe part of him felt that if he discovered why John was so important to him and proved that he needed the doctor, somehow John would get better. Completely irrational he knew, but he was starting to realize that life wasn’t always rational, and when that occurred he usually found himself looking to John for assistance.

Suddenly, it dawned on Sherlock. John had accepted Sherlock for who he was, without asking him for much more than a bit of consideration, trust, and respect. John had willingly given these things to Sherlock, but the detective was still learning how to give them in return. And he found something rewarding in having another person care about him and in caring about another human being. For John was a man very worth troubling about, despite his modest and false assertion that he was completely ordinary.

That would be the very last word Sherlock would use to describe John Watson. John’s status as a doctor and former military man already made him anything but average. He could shoot proficiently as well as remain calm in life-or-death situations. He also never backed away from an adventure, especially if Sherlock told him danger was involved. 

John’s capacity for caring, though, was what really set him apart from the masses. Sherlock had never met anyone with such a kindhearted temperament. As an army doctor, John had seen too much pain and darkness in this world, but still willingly kept looking, and even caring about the lives around him. It would make sense that the only ordinary thing in Sherlock’s life (a best friend) would turn out to be such an extraordinary man. Now, this brilliant person would leave the world, and Sherlock’s life, a little colder with his passing.

Sherlock obeyed the sudden impulse he had to grab John’s hand. “I’m so sorry, John,” he said softly, squeezing John’s hand, knowing that in the doctor’s eyes there was nothing to forgive. This only made him feel worse.

Sherlock didn’t even look up when someone walked through the door and came to a halt next to his chair.

“Mr. Holmes, you are a sight,” the visitor said silkily. 

“You will be too, once they sentence you to a life in prison, Culverton-Smith,” Sherlock replied icily, the emotion gone from his voice. 

“Please, Mr. Holmes, you can call me Mr. Smith. Culverton is really such a mouthful,” he drawled. 

Sherlock looked up at him, curiosity getting the better of his cool indifference. Culverton-Smith, 62 years of age, did not look like a murderer, and even less like a laboratory scientist. Tall and athletic, he still retained some of the good looks he must have had in his youth. His tanned skin contrasted strongly with his gray hair. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his blue eyes held no cloud of regret for the lives he had ended. Sherlock hated him. 

Before John had been struck down by his hand, Sherlock had been impressed by the man’s ingenuity. He always enjoyed it when the criminal world got a bit more creative. Now that his friend’s life was in danger, he felt nothing but disgust for the man standing before him.

“I suppose you’re surprised to see Dr. Watson lying on the bed instead of me,” Sherlock stated.

“Not particularly, Mr. Holmes. I have been eagerly perusing Dr. Watson’s blog, waiting for him to describe your suddenly falling ill. So, imagine my astonishment when Dr. Watson began complaining of ailments caused by my disease,” Culverton-Smith replied.

“I imagine it was quite a disappointment to you,” Sherlock said disinterestedly. “Your little magnifying glass trick didn’t work.”

“I couldn’t fool you, Mr. Holmes. You saw through that death trap right away. I should have sent you a pedometer instead,” Culverton-Smith said jovially. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. The man was enjoying all of this far too much.

“At first,” Culverton-Smith continued. “I was a bit put out that my virus didn’t manage to make its way to you, but then I discovered the silver lining.” He walked over to the other side of John’s bed, leaning in close to study the doctor. Sherlock flinched, but remained seated, not wanting Smith to think he was ill at ease in his presence. 

“I’m not going to hurt Dr. Watson any more than I already have, Mr. Holmes. Kind of bizarre that his gums are bleeding, don’t you think? Normal Hantavirus wouldn’t do that.” Sherlock stared at Smith, and then suddenly, the pieces fell together. 

“You’ve modified it,” Sherlock whispered. Culverton-Smith smiled, a terrible grin that made his pleasant face turn into something much more sinister.

“I was beginning to think you would never catch on. Yes, during my exile in Asia, I took genes from Yersinia pestis and added them to the RNA of Hantavirus. Did you know, Mr. Holmes, the plague originated in China? With the right connections, a person can visit a plague pit and take away some samples from those ancient remains. With my technical know-how, I managed to make my rat-borne virus even more deadly. Alas, I couldn’t make it as infectious as the plague, but it still does the trick.”

“And all this just to settle a grudge?” Sherlock scoffed. “A bit elaborate, don’t you think?”

“I only want what I deserve,” Culverton-Smith hissed, his polite façade slipping away in an instant. “Victor and Margaret had something that belonged to me, so I took it.” Culverton-Smith slowly collected himself and then continued, “Besides, it wasn’t just the money, Mr. Holmes. I wanted a challenge. The inheritance was just the first step. I have much bigger plans for my creation. I’m going to sell my disease to terrorists. Those people will pay a lot of money for an effective killing machine, something that does its job from a distance.”

“What makes you so sure you’ll be able to do that? What’s to stop me from calling in the police right now?” Sherlock mused softly, finally standing up from his chair.

“Two things, Mr. Holmes. First, I’m the only hope Dr. Watson has of survival. And second, I didn’t walk in here without insurance. As to the first item, I have no intention of letting Dr. Watson live. I don’t have a cure for you, Mr. Holmes, and judging by the good doctor’s appearance, he doesn’t have long for this world. I made his batch of virus, meant for you of course, extra potent.” Culverton-Smith answered, the look of glee twisting his features into something sickening. 

Sherlock staggered as if he had been hit by a physical blow. He had not thought it would be easy to get Culverton-Smith to save John, but he had not even considered the idea that Culverton-Smith would not be able to do so.

“And what…what is the second thing,” Sherlock choked out, attempting to maintain his composure. Culverton-Smith pulled a small device from his pocket.

“I have several cages of infected rats scattered throughout the city. I push this button the second you call in the police, releasing all those rats into the world,” he explained.

“You’re bluffing,” Sherlock stated simply. 

“You can think that if you’d like, but I assure you, you’d be wrong,” Culverton-Smith said shrugging. “I have a few acquaintances here in the city who aren’t opposed to getting their hands dirty for the right price.”

“Why are you here, then?” Sherlock asked, not quite managing to keep the quiver out of his voice. “Is it merely to boast? Because that is really quite dull.” Culverton-Smith chuckled.

“I wouldn’t want to bore you, Mr. Holmes. I have something more delectable in mind. Thanks to you, my plans have been ruined. The second I go to claim my inheritance it’s off to prison for me. I want revenge, Mr. Holmes. I want you to rue the day you ever decided to take on this case. I want to watch your face as your only friend in this world dies before your eyes,” Culverton-Smith stated, walking closer to Sherlock with every word, stopping a few inches from the detective’s face. 

“I will be here to see him fade from this world and then I will walk away. And it will kill you because not only will you have lost your best friend, but also the chance to bring me to justice, the man who murdered John Watson.” 

Sherlock began to breathe heavily, but fear, rather than rage, was the cause. He had never felt so helpless, and the feeling of not being able to do anything to change his situation terrified him. Even on the rooftop of this same hospital, Sherlock had known John would live if he could just play his part right. Now, despite his scheming brain, Sherlock could do nothing to change the hand fate had dealt him. Culverton-Smith read the defeat in Sherlock’s eyes, and smiled.

“I wanted to get you out of the way, Mr. Holmes. Murder you before you could get a chance to pick up Victor’s case. Once you started, I wasn’t naïve enough to believe you wouldn’t discover the truth. I figured I would have to confront you, and so I considered killing you in person or hiring an assassin. But it all worked out perfectly. I see now that taking your life would not be nearly as satisfying as this. By killing John Watson, I will have destroyed the part of you that made you human.”

Culverton-Smith’s voice rang with a seductive power. Sherlock could not resist the thrall of the words; he stood frozen at the foot of John’s bed, unable to stop listening to the poison leeching out of his opponent’s mouth. 

“You will finally become the perfect crime-solving machine. Yet it won’t matter to you. Your life will be empty. You will have no one by your side at the crime scene offering you support and praise. The emptiness of your flat will weigh on you, a daily reminder of all that you have lost. There will be no one to make tea or eat with. No one to worry about your health or remind you to sleep. No more blog entries of successful cases or complaining about your violin playing. No friend to ease the boredom when the cases run dry for a spell. No one to take a bullet for you or watch your back. No more laughter or words exchanged through glances and smiles.” 

Sherlock felt the sting of tears as they rolled down his face. Culverton-Smith’s words were all true. Despair raced through his body as he thought of all the things he would have to endure without John. Bitterness may have been a strong paralytic, but despair was even stronger. And still the murderer continued, each word stabbing Sherlock like a knife. 

“A never-ending guilt will consume you, eating you up from the inside. Only this flame doesn’t burn, it freezes, Mr. Holmes. It will turn the blood in your veins to ice, but the numbness is worse than the pain because it is the absence of feeling and a vacuum like that is nearly impossible to fill. The years will stretch before you, endless and bleak. You will see him in every short man wearing a jumper, every male doctor with graying hair. For a split second, you will feel hope, then crushing despair when you realize John is dead and buried. And it will hurt every single time. And at the end of your days, you will look back on your life and grieve. Grieve for the lonely old man who will die as he lived most of his life: alone.”

Sherlock let out a sob, seeing his future play out before his eyes just as Culverton-Smith described. The images flashed through his vision, each one more horrible than the last, culminating with a scene of a broken old man, dying in Baker Street with a skull as his only companion. It was too awful to imagine. Culverton-Smith looked down at the detective and laughed. 

“And so I shall have my revenge, Mr. Holmes. And you will have noth—.”

“That’s enough of that,” John cried as he leapt from the bed slamming the butt of his handgun into the back of Culverton-Smith’s head. Culverton-Smith crumpled and fell to the floor. John looked up at Sherlock and grinned. 

“He’s almost as bad as you when it comes to mouthing off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly bringing a cactus to John while he is in the hospital is a reference to a scene in one of my favorite books, Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer.


	3. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope ACD is not rolling in his grave as I finish writing this. I originally was going to make the ending a bit more emotional, but it seemed too out-of-character for Sherlock.

John crouched down to check Culverton-Smith’s vitals. “I can’t say he’s not going to feel that when he wakes up, but at least he’s still breathing. Not that he deserves to be, the sick bastard,” John muttered standing up again. Silence filled the room as Sherlock continued to stare at John as if not quite believing his eyes. John quirked his eyebrows at his friend.

“Do you want to call in Lestrade now?”

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie. “Yes, right. Lestrade.” He sent out a quick text, Culverton-Smith out of commission. Please come collect. –SH, then picked up the transmitter from where it had fallen out of the criminal’s hand. 

“Do you think he was bluffing?” John asked, nodding at the device.

“No,” Sherlock mused. “I think a man as clever as Culverton-Smith would have insurance. Lestrade and the team can trace back the signal and take care of it.” Lestrade and Donovan strode into the room. Lestrade was beaming, while Sally’s face wore a scowl. 

“Well done. Can’t believe he fell for it. I must say, Sherlock, your acting was superb. Got him to make a full confession without him realizing the trap he’d walked into,” Lestrade rambled gleefully. John handed the Detective Inspector a small recording device he’d had hidden under the bed sheets. There was a moment of silence as Lestrade looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock turned from gazing out the window when he felt everyone’s eyes upon him.

“Are we done here, Lestrade? I’m sure John’s hungry, and I could use a bite to eat myself,” the detective asked.

“I suppose so,” Lestrade said, bewildered when Sherlock didn’t launch into an elaborate victory speech. “I know where to find you if I need you.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock replied, already striding out of the room. “Coming, John?”

“Right behind you,” John responded, nodding to Lestrade and Donovan, sharing a puzzled look with them that clearly said, I don’t know what’s wrong with him either.

When they had both left, Donovan turned to Lestrade. “The freak is getting freakier by the day.” Lestrade shot her a disapproving look.

“Maybe. But you can’t argue with his results,” he replied. “Call in the boys and let’s get this madman out of here.”

 

John and Sherlock walked in silence on their way to one of their favorite Italian restaurants. John was no stranger to Sherlock’s sulking, but his flat mate usually lasted 24 hours before the boredom started settling in and he became nearly impossible to live with. Something here was very wrong.

“So,” John started. “Awfully considerate of you to worry about my dietary needs.” Sherlock looked over at him.

“I just though you might be hungry. You complained enough about the bread and water diet I put you on for the last few days. I thought I owed you something a bit more substantial,” he replied with a shrug.

“You do. Between catching the flu from work and your plan to have me fake a wasting illness, I think I’ve dropped ten pounds. I must look emaciated,” John replied, trying to lighten the mood a bit. Sherlock shot him another look, but the crease on his brow didn’t lessen.

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic, John. The make-up did most of the work, and you’ve only lost four and a quarter pounds since last week,” Sherlock stated. John didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock had come up with that number.

“Molly did one hell of a job making me look like a dead man. Who would have guessed she used to do stage makeup for her sister’s acting troupe,” John said. Silence fell once more. John kept glancing at Sherlock, while the detective purposefully kept his eyes on the night sky.

“Lestrade’s right you know,” John began again. “You would have made a great actor.” Sherlock grinned slightly at the comment.

“Mycroft always said the silver screen lost a star the day I decided to dedicate my mental faculties to deduction,” Sherlock replied. The grin quickly faded from his face.

“Seriously, though, Sherlock. Even I forgot I wasn’t actually dying. You were crying. How did you manage it? Sherlock?” John spun around when he failed to hear Sherlock’s footsteps behind him. The consulting detective stood a few meters behind John, his eyes focused on the ground. John walked back to him, concern etched on his features.

“All right, what’s wrong? Everything went according to plan. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, even Harry played their part to a tee. We caught Culverton-Smith. We should be celebrating,” John said, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock slowly looked up at him.

“Not everything,” he replied hoarsely.

“Sorry, what?” John asked, thoroughly baffled now. 

“Not everything went according to plan,” Sherlock said, his voice gaining in strength and volume.

“As per usual, it seems I’m missing something,” John said, beginning to get frustrated. He had been living on a medieval prisoner’s diet for the last few days, spent half of the past week getting over the flu, and employed the rest of the week pretending to be dying so they could get their suspect to come out of hiding. John hadn’t been outside the hospital in three days and the cabin fever had set in after the first night. To be fair, Sherlock hadn’t left the hospital either (they had to make their charade believable), but he at least had the lab and the case to occupy his time. Sherlock never got bored whilst tangoing with a criminal. Now all John wanted was some real food, a hot cup of tea, and his friend to be back to his normal, sociopathic self. 

Sherlock took a deep breath as if he were about to explain some elaborate detail John had missed, but he seemed to think better of it and simply said, “I should have foreseen his stunt with the rats.” John sighed in relief. As per usual, Sherlock was obsessing over a detail he had missed.

“Is that really what’s bothering you? Come on now, Sherlock. Even you can’t expect yourself to plan for every contingency,” John said exasperatedly. 

“Of course I can,” Sherlock replied adamantly. “What if you had really been sick? You would have died because I had falsely deduced he would have some sort of cure.”

“Well, I wasn’t dying, Sherlock; we caught the lunatic. He can’t hurt anyone anymore,” John replied reassuringly.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sherlock mused. Feeling slightly better, he started walking once more, John falling into step next to him. They strolled in companionable silence, Sherlock’s mood improving with every stride. 

“You wanted to know how I managed to act so convincingly?” Sherlock asked a few moments later. John nodded. Sherlock looked over at his friend.

“In those few hours when we were waiting for Culverton-Smith to arrive, I recreated the case in my head and how it would have played out if you had actually been exposed to Smith’s disease. Since the flu had put you out of commission for most of the case, it really didn’t take all that much effort. When our murderer showed up, I had created an alternate reality where you were actually on death’s door,” Sherlock explained. “The best actors know that in order to make others buy into their performance, they have to believe in it themselves.”

“You would be that broken up if I were to kick the bucket?” John asked in a tone of slight amazement. 

“I might have embellished it a little to make it more convincing,” Sherlock replied noncommittally. That was a lie, though. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth to John. The doctor would not believe him if he told him he hadn’t been acting and had forgot his only friend wasn’t actually dying, just pretending. Sherlock’s tears had been genuine and (for once) his heart had won out over his head. No, John didn’t need to know all that. It would only lead to one of those discussions about feelings and emotions that Sherlock so despised. But he did have to tell him something. John needed to know he did care what happened to the doctor, that John’s life did matter. In the end (despite his better judgment), Sherlock decided to go for the obvious.

“I’m glad you’re not dying, John.” 

“Me, too,” John replied. “I can’t imagine the state of the flat if I died. Mrs. Hudson would have a heart attack with you as her only tenant.” Sherlock’s face broke into a small, but sincere grin this time.

“And then I would have to find a new flat mate,” Sherlock replied, continuing the joke. “An odious process I do not wish to repeat.”

“I can see the advertisement now. ‘Consulting detective seeks flat mate. Only ex-Army doctors with a tolerance for violin playing at all hours and a love of life-threatening situations need apply,’” John replied jokingly.

“I think I might try someone from the RAF next time. Ex-Army doctors are far too tidy and meddlesome. Their constant nagging about one’s health can really tax the nerves,” Sherlock said with mock sincerity. John and Sherlock shared a look and then burst out into laughter. Their mirth died down as they reached the restaurant. Sherlock turned to face John as he opened the door.

“What romanticized name will you be giving this case in your next blog entry?” Sherlock asked sarcastically. John thought for a moment, ignoring Sherlock’s tone.

“The Dying Doctor. Alliteration’s always nice. And for once, I get to be the hero because despite your massive intellect, you wouldn’t have been able to nab him without me,” John replied smugly. Sherlock smiled.

“No, I wouldn’t have,” Sherlock said simply as he headed into the establishment. “But don’t get too comfortable in the limelight.” John shook his head fondly and followed his friend inside.

“The Dying Doctor” received more hits than any previous post, which John boasted about for several days. Sherlock assured him that a case even better than this one would pop up soon enough, but he let John enjoy his fame while it lasted.

Sherlock had finally gotten around to reading John’s latest account of their adventures. Although the prose was a bit on the dramatic side, John did have a storyteller’s gift. And he never had a single grammar error or typo, something that never failed to impress Sherlock. 

On a whim, Sherlock scrolled down to the comments section. Most of them were banal versions of the same sentiment, with more “bloody fantastics” and “well dones” than Sherlock cared to count. Yet, further down the page, one response caught his eye. 

Sherlock Holmes is lucky to have you as a friend, Dr. Watson. You two are a team in the truest sense of the word. He would be very lost without you. The comment—left by an anonymous reader—startled Sherlock with its accuracy.

Sherlock placed the cursor in the reply box. Yes he would be. And I’m sure he hopes Dr. Watson is aware of that fact. Sherlock pressed submit with a satisfied smile on his face. John would know Sherlock had written the comment, and he would understand the deeper meaning lurking behind the simple phrases without confronting Sherlock about it. 

Sherlock closed John’s laptop and flung himself on the couch, wrapping his dressing gown around him. He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but he was certain of one thing: John would have his back. And in the end, that was all the consulting detective really needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to include the comment on Sherlock’s acting skills because something along those lines pops up in a majority of ACD’s stories. Also couldn’t resist Sherlock’s jibe at John’s writing, another common feature in the Holmes tales. 
> 
> This was the first fic I ever wrote, and it, along with my other net can be found on Fanfiction.net. I have the same username there as well. Thanks for reading and I hope you all enjoyed the ride!


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